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+--- Thread: [O] Turn On A Light (/showthread.php?tid=19907)

So cold. All snow. So cold. No blade. So cold. Collapse and despair for doom is near. No morning. No comfort. So cold.

Inside the ice and snow she crawled while the wind still whipped. The blinding snow and piling drifts washing all in white, all but she. A half dark shadow, pushed and pulled by the wind stumbles into the icey caverns. Icy paws step first on ice and the wind gusts round and all falls down. Down comes the great beast.

On the ice there lay in a heap a once rare sight. White fur dances against black while the wind pulls at the lion tail. The short thick legs, clawed and pawed, were left where they lay, unmoved. Great heat, square and stout, lay still. Eyes closed over and usually attentive ears dead to the world. About her neck hung a locket, ticking with each passing second.

The sudden winter winds outside had beat the poor feline. The great White Time Tiger, who had walked these lands of ice and snow before even the gods, now lay beaten at last. The ills, the strains, of her land and the winter had had compiled. Her fur was ragged, and chest scarred, all from where the ills of her home tore at her. For how can she protect those who tear themselves apart? Can’t they see what they were doing to her? She never complained, and never spoke. Winter had come and laid its damage too. Ice crystals layered parts of her fur, and pads were sore and bloodied. There was an ill omen coming, and the protector lay unmoved. Ticking slowing slower and slower.

There wasn’t much time. There wasn’t much hope. Its so cold. So very cold.

But hope can always be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.

OOC :: @[Lena] @[Enna] @[Tiamat] @[Tilney] and Open to any and all =]You have 96 hours. =]"Speech"

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsptiamat</style>we run like a river runs to the sea</style>

She had only just wandered from the Basin’s borders before the storm began to release its blustery snowfall. Recognizing the thick, low-hanging clouds, she had found refuge in one of the small caverns of the Frozen Arch, content to wait it out rather than try and fight her way through it. She lies on her back now, cloven hooves dangling in the air, dark hair sprawling out over the icy stone beneath her. It is a strange position, but one that Tiamat finds quite joyful to watch the storm in (who wants to just sit around, after all? She has done enough of that already). The long plume of her lion-like tail flutters from side to side, her gaze enthralled by the flakes as they twist, dance, and melt into one another.

But even atop her stony perch, the blue mare does not miss the movement, the struggle of effort through this blustering white storm. Lips puckering in concern for the thought of anyone travelling through this wild weather, she tilts her head before righting herself, legs rolling to fold beneath her as white eyes peer through the whirlwinds of snow. Tiamat does not recognize the great beast, or know of the magnitude of its being, but she does recognize the strain and stumble of a struggling creature—and that is more than enough to spur her into action.

Rising to her hooves from the cavern’s floor, Tiamat makes her way carefully—and as quick as she can—down the short rocky slope. The strong gales of wind push and pull at her slender figure, a cloven hoof sometimes slipping on the frozen surface, but before long she is able to make the descent unscathed. Lying in a mass at the mouth of a cave, she sees the strange beast. Her heart trembles for a moment when she is able to actually see it—great, muscled, and clawed—but as usual, her inherent desire to help, the need to aid, is far more poignant than the fear that rises and sputters in her veins.

Summoning the adrenaline as her support, the ocean blue mare bounds to the creature’s side with haste. Blinking flakes of snow from her lashes, she turns her eyes to roam its hairy, haggard frame, before she moves to its large head. “We must get you further into the cave, friend—the wind is too harsh here!” She shouts above the howl of the gusts as they wail their mournful cry. It whistles through the carved hollows of Tiamat’s horn, giving her strength as she listens to nature’s blustery song—it is for her.

“I will guide you,” she assures the beast—unsure if it can hear her or not—but hoping that the natural heat of her skin will, if nothing else, ease the chill of its body. Calling upon her strength, the blue mare braces herself up against the striped creature, but it is far too large for her to move on her own—she is able to shift them both forward perhaps an inch or two, but no more. Her legs tremble with the effort, breaths billowing in curling white wisps from her nostrils. “Somebody help!” She cries desperately, realizing her helpless for this dear stranger and despairing in it.

“Anybody!”

This—this is what she has always feared.

The inability to offer aid.

She has no magic, no companion, or trinkets—she has only the goodness of her heart and the will of her soul. She gives it all to the beast now—murmuring reassurances, talking as if they are old friends, never stopping her gentle chatter for fear of the silence. Her eyes search for healing herbs, anything, but she is not nearly practiced enough to recognize the plants among this icy wilderness. Arching her neck so that her head is pressed into the creature’s shoulder, she rubs its skin, hoping to stimulate the blood flow—at least this she knows. “Mama,” she breathes into the knotted fur, her voice thick with passion, “mama give me strength, give me strength, stay with me…”

Perhaps it was a Mender’s instinct or the Songbird’s vows, drenched, coated, veiled, soused and doused with all the inflections, all the notes, all the oeuvres of a virtuous being (so frequently torn, so distinctly muddled, but always cast just the same). Like a lantern light, like a siren’s wail, she was hastened and folded into the brink of desolation, forged and colliding with the chilling wickedness of the cold, of the harsh, winter reign, of the pinnacles and fires of everything Siberia had to bestow. And like every moment before this one, she arched domination, resolution, and determination, crossing over whirlwind treachery and lamentable dirges, listening to the mournful cries, the bellowing abyss, throwing her stubborn, chiseled jaw into the frame of supremacy and tempting its outcries. She reigned through adversity, clawed her way through its chains and shackles, unleashed torrents of pinnacle persistence, and layered down the worn lacquer of ice, rime, and debauchery.

But it was the strange, out-of-place hues unwinding amidst the powerful gusts of snow that urged her down the correct path – blue, so much blue, like the sea and the sky, rustling tales of gulls and seashells, and reality struck so vividly on the familiar pelt bursting through all the pure, unrelenting white. Tiamat. What was she doing out here in this miserable weather? Steadily, slowly, the pair followed, Imogen managing to stay beneath Lena’s long limbs, not wishing to be lost amongst a warren of white. The Songbird’s eyes narrowed and she cast no sonnets, no arias, no strains to get them by; nothing would be heard from such a distance in all the potent, pummeling elements. A beleaguered duo continued their battle within the onslaught, reigning vividly as beacons, as paragons, as saints holding out benedictions, descending and unwinding, unfurling and uncoiling, only reaching Tiamat’s side as they stepped within an icy cavern.

Then her eyes widened, shocked and surprised by the creature residing upon the cave floor: a tiger, barely resisting the strength and acrimony of winter’s ferocity. She listened to the other mare’s urgent pleas, to the shouts, to the cries, and hitched her pluck, grit, and stalwart essences higher, touching the cerulean femme briefly on the shoulder, a tender grace, a finessed, diligent trace of camaraderie and decisiveness. They could mend this ailing carnivore.

The nymph, covered and veiled by flakes and untamed features, began a series of commands, lowering her soft maw to the roughened pelt of the predator (shouldn’t they be running, shouldn’t they be hiding, from the great beast?), and murmuring dulcet croons. “She’s right, friend. You must get up quickly.” She shared a sprite wink with Tiamat, before ushering more demands towards Imogen, who paced at her side. “Perhaps you can start a small fire towards the back, my dear,” – the fox, glad for something to do other than staring at a massive, predacious cretin, sprinted down towards the indicated direction. Only thereafter did Lena begin her own demonstration of potency, standing beside Tiamat and the great, grand beast, harboring all the essences of time, all the hours and minutes and seconds coiled in her chest. Her eyes closed, her breathing slowed, and a sort of calm, composed ease slid through her spine, her barrel, her heart. In an instant, she conjured the flowing balms and alms of junctures, seconds, and instances, embarking the gilded light, the spiraling blessings, to enrapture the wounded spirit laid at their feet. It ignited and sparked along the lacerations, across the scars, upon the enamel and pelt of the tired, forlorn animal, pressing all the wiles, all the hopes, all the ambitions of her rank, of her aspirations, deep into the fathoms of her magic.

Two forms amongst the storm are easily spotted, one, dark and rich in color known to you, the other, lighter and hued with cerulean foreign. It is only as you draw closer, your restlessness and more so curiosity (you are beginning to see a trend; your curiosity has led you to many, many things, not all pleasant) of just what they would be doing out here pushing you on. You do not have a clue of what you are doing out here, fueled by merely the relentless restlessness that you have always known, but never pushing you into danger like this. Something had brought you here, though you are too young, too inexperienced to realize it until your eyes lock on the heap of white and black, a great beast fallen amongst the wildness. For a moment you simply stare, too awestruck and frightened to do much else. But the stranger of a girl is pushing on it, and the energy pouring from Lena force your legs in to motion, your heart lurching in your throat with concern.

Again, your sheer inexperience renders you useless, and with an overpowering anxiety rising within you, you make your way to the Mender’s side as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb her further. Looking at the beast you know there is no way the three of you can move it, even as the little fox bounds off towards the mouth of a cave with the command to make a fire, you cannot think of any way besides coaxing the beast up on its own. Certain the other two have come to the same conclusion you sigh, dipping your nose to press gingerly against the beast’s side, feeling a surge of magic seep into your veins, igniting as it goes. You pour yourself in to the being, breath catching in your throat. There is heat building in your core, through your limbs, uncomfortable and consuming.

But all too soon it fades, is overcome by the fear settled deep within you, and your breath releases in a heavy huff, the taste of failure bitter on your tongue. There would be a time to be angry, to reflect, and to improve, but it is not now. With the life of the beast hanging in the balance, you shove your insecurities and failures to the back of your mind; swallow the lump forming thickly in the back of your throat. Once again you look desperately to the bay girl, pinning all your hopes for rescuing the creature on her slender shoulders, tender heart.

The wind and cold were sealing her in like an ice walled prison. Footsteps and shouts like muffled and cold, fell dull on her ears. She did not need to hear them. Creatures such as she have more senses than ours. A faint flick in that creature breast sparks. Friend. Who calls her friend? This war of winter and survival, in a land of cold and steel who calls her friend?

She will guide you. She will help you? Why was the last time others had lent a shoulder? Their roles were usually reversed. The curious child who wandered into the mountains lead home. The heart broken fighter, tired and battered given strength. She gave aid. But never had she received it. Who was this who called her friend and offered her a hand? A warm body comes to rest by her thick ragged coat. It was numb to the touch, but she feels it in other ways. A white mist, at contact, curls around her chest. While the mare shouts will she see what common miracle her care is causing? It draws to a point, and lays itself like a binding on a laceration about her chest.

Tick…..Tock………….

Who calls themselves helpless, when they give so much?

Breath comes easier, but still her chest is torn. Her grey eyes slowly lift awake. Though limp and deadened to touch she see the girl struggle with her weight. Then she collapses from the effort, murmuring, and calling ghosts as she lays her head upon the great creature. Such a strange girl to give this creature help. So strange to receive it. But it could not in the end change fate.

Another creature moves forward, and the grey eyes listlessly find her brown form. Had she seen this mare on the mountain sides before? Her voice, like a song is felt in the creature’s chest, and breaks through the muffled quiet of the creature’s world. Ah yes, that song. It was so much like those she sang to down trodden heroes. Now she too is turning to help the fallen mythology. Like a rough bandage the magic of the horses, and their Gods rubbed against her paws. For the first time the creature shifts, her sore pads pulling from the roughness. It was not as smooth and soothing as the magic of her kind.

It was another kindness, another soul aiding one so rarely thought of, and so another white mist drew from her ticking locket and lay upon her breast, washing away in a warm touch the wound there.

Now the grey eyes open more consciously. The great head, still weighted and heavy lifts to see a fire spark further, and another come to stand near by. She comes now too, to tiger’s side, and her warm breath, washes over the creature coat. Had the tigress ever known another’s touch? Another’s gracious hand? Who were these creatures to aid her. She pitied to poor creatures for their inability to see, but all the same, another white whisp soothed upon her chest.

Tick………………Tick……………………..

Get up they say, they cry. Coldness still grips her mortal body. Healed physically was a fine thing to do. But those were not the wounds she would see her fate sealed by. Sitting up slowly she looks to them. Though cold like a fog has wrapped her she feels something through its thick grip. Why? Why did they help her? For so long she had helped them, guided them. Her nights were filled watching over their slumbers, and days let them glimpse if luck needed at her form. Never had any fallen upon themselves to ask what she needed. The strange actions puzzled her. She wanted to know. To know one last thing.

Slowly thick legs gathered under her and shaking, and swaying she stands, and stumbles towards the creature’s fire. Her wounds healed, and body eased, they might her no longer to look injured only old. Her movements like creaking time, are slow and jolted, while her coat is still ragged and body worn. Or perhaps, they might think, that is nothing but the cold. She comes to the fires edge, collapsing in its ring of heat.

For a moment she did not move. Her entire being seeming deadened again. Yet there was yet one thing left, she wanted to know. Her grey eyes find the other, and with a blank worn face her question, a whisper and groan, flows out. “Why do you help me?” She looks slowly to each one. So long a life had she lived. Never needing a soul, yet when fate made her wounded they came. They aided whole heartedly. Why? What was in the breast of those she had watched so long that she had missed? What made their clocks tick.

Tock…………………………………Tick……………………………………..

OOC :: @[Lena] @[Enna] @[Tiamat] @[Tilney] and Open to any and all =]You have 72 hours. Also apologies for the incredibly long post."Speech"

Imogen’s narrowed gaze snagged a pile of sticks and wares in the back of the cavern, and she quickly utilized one of her many talents – her mouth opened, sparks ignited the dried wood, and fire melded and molded into the corridor. She watched the brilliant blaze, commended herself on her efforts, then waited, witnessed, the exchange of Menders, healers, soothers, and sages with the other beast; carefully, meticulously, surveying, ensuring her bonded was safe. Lena, along the other intervals, wielded her invocations until one more joined in; she opened her eyes to stare serenely upon the younger Enna, upon a newly forged, fledgling piece of their puzzle, and smiled. The nymph, the naiad, ignored the howling wind and the accursed cold, the chilling portal and the bestial fringes, the treacherous rimes and the ghostly shackles of the void, choosing to christen and anoint one of the fallen instead. Her eyes shifted across the predator, and while Imogen supplied her with a monumental grate, rasp, and warning, the sylph felt no danger, no alarm, no peril, from the stray, wayward tiger. Her questions, however, were numerous: why was she here? How had she acquired such wounds? What was she doing so far in this wake, amongst these towering mountains, brutal, beautiful, and rapacious? As they presided, deeper and deeper into the shadowy fixtures of the cave, and the unrelenting sparks of Imogen’s own powers, she asked none of them, but was supplied with one from the beast. The inquisition was fair: any other moment in between could be see as a carnivore easily snatching them as prey, but something, something ensured Lena, nor the other fair individuals in their midst, would flee from the tiger. How, why, she couldn’t explain, and left it sifting and meandering, listless, through her sentiments and notions, another enigma, phenomenon, lifted and cast into their magical, nefarious, warren world. Her stare shifted from the dancing sonnets of embers trembling across the walls, and back towards the hunter, still grinning, still enchanting, still alluring amidst the chaotic frames, shambles, and tapestries. “Because you needed it.” One more selfless plunge into a realm, an empire, a sovereign, of nefarious acts and sinister calculations – perhaps this moment, juncture, hour, would be remembered because it wasn’t made in Machiavellian interludes or manipulative tendencies; crowned in pure, winsome virtue.

Even as the creature gets to her feet, lumbers in to the crude cavern, shelter nonetheless, and you stumble after her through the mounds of snow, howling wind, you do not smile; the happiness sparked at her simply being able to move too fragile to hold. The gravity of the situation unfolding in front of you is too immense, weighing heavy on your heart. Even as Lena smiles, benevolence radiating from her in thick waves, the way it always does, it does not soothe the trouble brewing within your heart, your mind, like a storm over the sea.

You cannot shake the idea that something is still amiss, your glance passing from Lena to the kitstune, to the girl crafted from the ocean, and to the heap of the beast laying in front of the fire, still as she had been before.

If any of them feel the same they do not readily show it.

The tigress asks why, and your previously unfocused eyes shift to her wild face, suddenly seeming very old within the flicker of the flame. 'Because you needed it.' You give a simple nod, seconding the Mender's answer.

"If you found someone struggling and you had the means to help them, would you not?" You murmur, the words more your own answer than anything else. You had pursued healing to do just that: to help, to mend, to aid those that couldn't help themselves, an idealistic view of what it should be shielding you from the harshness that you would no doubt face someday, the inevitability of not being able to help someone someday lost on you in your youth, your inexperience.

Sharpening your gaze you study her, your doubt both deepening and mixing with a natural curiosity. "What happened to you in the first place?" You do not suppose it actually matters, as it happened nonetheless, but there is a desire to know itching within you, growing more uncomfortable by the second.

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsptiamat</style>we run like a river runs to the sea</style>

The blue mare does not at first notice the arrival of others. She keeps her body pressing close to the large creature, sharing what warmth she has, all she can give with no magic and no strength. Tiamat will not give up—she can’t, she must try with all the means that she has available to her. It is only when she hears Lena’s voice—as soft, sweet, gentle, and nurturing as always, the voice who had led her home so long ago—pierces through her awareness and brings pale eyes, blinking through long lashes, glancing to the familiar brown mare. “Oh Lena!” The unicorn breathes, her spirits beginning to lift again to their usual buoyancy. She almost feels like crying with the relief of the Mender’s aid.

“Thank you, mama!” She whispers breathlessly, closing her eyes in a long blink as she fights to control the emotions that swell in her breast. There is still much to be done.

Although there is still not much else she can do other than stay at the stripe hunter’s side, the tightness of her chest—the fear, the terror of being so helpless in the wake of someone so wounded—has released itself, and she no longer feels powerlessly lost. Tiamat breathes deeply, her white eyes following Imogen as the white fox-creature obeys her bonded and sets a fire alight, the glow warm and soft in the midst of the blizzard outside. It is from this blustery whiteness that another figure appears. Tiamat doesn’t know the mare’s name, but she recognizes her from within the Basin.

A friendly smile is given to the antlered stranger—a gesture that is far more fleeting and distracted than it would be in other circumstances—before the blue mare returns her focus to the creature of their attention. The gentle melodies of Lena’s medicinal songs resonate through the wintry air, mingling with the gentle murmuring of the other two until their voices swell and echo against the cavern’s stony walls. Tiamat feels her heart quickening, anticipation and worry still shadowing her mind, but there is hope—a light of hope that wills her forward, lifting her soul in the spirit of camaraderie with her fellow herd mates as they work together. This—this is what she has always wanted.

Time seems to melt and mold into itself. Seconds, minutes, days, weeks—Tiamat is not sure how much time passes before their efforts stir movement from the great beast. Pressing against its hairy side, she feels its mighty breath first, a rumbling of air, lungs, and bone that rattles against her body, her eyes widening in expectation as her gaze snaps to the tiger’s face. Only when she feels the hunter prepare to rise to its shaky, thick legs does the blue mare step back to give her enough room.

It is now when the creature has risen does the unicorn notice how ancient she looks—like she has lived through centuries, weathered and beaten by the incessant, unstoppable passing of time. Tiamat hovers close to the creature’s side, fearing that her trembling body might betray her and collapse again (not that Tiamat would be much help in comparison to her large bulk, but perhaps it is instinct that guides the blue mare closer to the matted, weathered body). The tiger’s question comes heavily, her gaze somehow intense in its weariness, omniscient and wise in its impression. The mare can’t help but think how, then, did such a primeval creature become so vulnerable?

Lena’s answer pulls Tiamat from her reverie—so simplistic, capturing the truth so humbly, that all the ocean mare can do is give a nod in agreement, a friendly smile softening her lips. The antlered mare elaborates, and Tiamat nods as well, her white eyes dropping to the cave’s stony floor before rising slowly to meet the gaze of the tiger. “Or at least do what you could,” she adds, more for herself than anyone else, her voice much meeker than usual. Only moments ago—minutes? Hours? Days?—she had thought she would lose this poor beast simply because of her inability to do anything. She doesn’t have the means or knowledge to do great things yet—healing things—and she prays that she will never experience such a tragedy of truly being so lost and helpless.

Her chest knotting uncomfortably with these terrors, Tiamat flicks her plumed leonine tail out behind her, shifting her weight and trailing her eyes to stare at cloven hooves for a moment. When she glances back up, her eyes catch something—light, reflecting from the warmth of the fire’s glow. Tilting her head curiously, she seeks the tiger’s gaze. “What—what is that?” She gestures to the locket around its neck. Really she should have held her tongue, or at least waited, but the question had bubbled from her lips before she could reign it in. Tilting her ears back in embarrassment even though her eyes are bright with curiosity, she stares up at the beast.

Bones weigh heavy on her body. Coat, its once proud black stripes already in this time are fading to gray, slowly. Perhaps too slow even for their eyes. Yet the large mythology waits. Her last strength given to pausing her moment. She wants to know.

It was not her kind to be given to maternal instincts, and cares of the future. Yet this tigress had seen horrors in her time. The creatures of this land tearing each other apart. Brother set against brother. It seemed each that kindness, hope, and light were dead. It could only leave the wizened tigeress worried for the future. For though their worlds revolved around different centers, they were tied together in ways the legends only knew.

The songbird answers first. The answer though was still strange. Because she needed it. The great creatures head, heavy and low still manages to tilt. Her body was tired, but her spirit carried her on. Lungs, living all these weeks on half breaths, finally took a full breath, pulling their powers. “A flower needs sun. A fish needs water. And a horse needs breath.” The breaks came in her old speak, like the turning of a clock. “But there will come a day when they are not needed any longer.” Her breath sighs out easy now though, but she still looks to the bay trying her best to understand the girl’s phrase and pass on her own tongue.

This though, this speech and warmth (not from the fire, but other sources of light), give her strength. “Oh gentle Songbird, you help so many without thought, but remember the song of life is not always be what is needed.” Her faded grey eyes seem to shake, and shiver. In them she sees the bay girl as she had all those moons, soothing those who did not deserve, and healing those who were only full of hate. “It does not mean the song ends. Only that another begins.” The breath hisses from her fanged mouth, but it still seems to with care in those words.

Tick…………………………………………….Tock……………..

Another speaks. The antlered mare. In her she could see the pained eyes of reality, and her own soul mourned. Yet she too speaks. Her response brings a smile to worn tigress’s face, and a brightness of the past. “It is a choice to carry that heavy banner.” Head lowers slightly, but it brought back up. Of all the things she had done in her long life, these moments were, to her, the more important. “I carried it yes, just as strong as you do now.” Her life. How often had she thought of her life as a whole. Mythologies are given little choice in their destinies, yet all of us have the power to change.

Her thoughts were brought forward again by another question from the antlered mare. It though does not bring the same life though. It shakes her from the past and back to the present, where already she felt her body sinking with its weight. This time her voice sounds more like the question she first asked, rasped and worn. “Not all the world carries that banner….Its failure does not go unfelt.” She takes a ragged breath, and feels still the sting of the wounds as she speaks of them. “Murders. Wars. And hate, child. My hide marks the tallies, and this world has seen many dark days.” They were not supposed to talk of their kind, and their magic. A pang in her heart sings, but she feels it little. It is almost her time anyway.

…………………………………………..Tick……………………………..

The last mare finally speaks. She too, in her false helplessness, gains a gentle gaze from those grey eyes. It always amazed the tigress throughout her years how limited these creatures saw their power. “Innocent child. The will and heart to aid, is the strongest magic of all.” It was too heavy, the reality putting too much force. Through her own answers, hers were coming. There was hope in this world. There was light. So much so, it could even reach her. “The walls of limitations you see were made by your own hand, and none other.” Her head finally rests on her paws. And her breath no longer is full as it was before. Yet it is also not the shallowed wisps, but calm slow drawls.

…………………………………………Tock…………………………………

There is one more question though, one last curiosity. Her grey eyes shift back to the blue mare, with a calm peaceful face. What is that? The tigeress, with her last strength wills the silver locket to open. Never before in this universe had a mortal seen inside. “It is time….” Came the whispered voice. Inside the locket was a clock. But its face shifted with the faces of those across Helovia. It was never long enough to catch a face. Yet as quickly as they saw it, it changed, and the images faded to white time dial. The hands stopped, and still. It was indeed time. The tigress’s body lifted no more in breath. Yet a pleasant calm face rested like sleep.

…………………………………………………..

This tale is not over though. As she spoke before. When one song ends, another begins…..

OOC :: Please post again, this will be the last 'round' though I promise. Sorry for the wait. =] Suggest song:: Enya's May It Be"Speech"

The Songbird watched and listened, a silent flower on the rocks. There were so many things she wished to do, wished to say, but she remained strung on hushed listlessness, languid and composed, jostled between the nestled thorns of foreshadowing and passing glances between her fellow healers. They asked questions and stared at trinkets, they emboldened themselves to the core of their being, and she witnessed as the great, grand tiger slowly whittled away, whisper by whisper, breath by breath (it wasn’t right and couldn’t they do more? or how much longer did she have – how much longer could they press and fold and give?). Her head bowed against the beast’s words, laden with Lena’s inadequacies and her miscalculated measurements (all things needed something, anything, to make them whole, to make them stagger, to make them feel and love and cherish, to anoint them with purpose, to fulfill their hearts), and it broke against the surface of her skull with a shimmer of regrets and rue. The tigress, and even themselves, were destined for quietude, and sometimes all they could do was slow the process, mend and assuage and soothe the aches, the pains, the numbing torrents and the abysmal wounds for another day. The notion, the sentiments, were a grand, roaring decibel of agony striking against her, and she stole a few deep breaths from the chilling, wild wind and hoped, prayed, in fervent adoration for lives lost, for powers that be, for the echo of the future the predator promised. When the abyss shuddered, when the clock ceased, her eyes were cast back towards the fallen creature, on the final whittle of her lungs, on the widening chasm between hallowed life and hollowed death. She pressed a sonnet between her lips and stoked it into the snow, polished stanzas and hymns past the fluttering wake, pondered over the state of dreams and which one the tiger prospered now, at her last hour, at her concluding story. “May you find endless comfort at your journey's end.” The song sprung another, and she loosened her decibels to a brighter murmur, a glowing wisp of conviction, a murmuring, blinding glimpse beyond the trials of abhorrence or the static glimpse of their failure (because maybe they’d been too late, or no matter what they’d done, it wouldn’t have ever been enough). “To new beginnings.”

Time, she says, and your brows furrow, head pressing closer to the peculiar little trinket. The faces are a blur of color, of lines and of little consequence, and you watch with a tempered excitement. The wonder of such a device is lost beneath the gravity of the situation, your mind too loud to truly even try to grasp what lay in front of you. As soon as they appeared they vanish, leaving nothing but the ivory white of the clock face that you realize had been there all along.

But something is wrong. The great beast stills, and for a moment too long you simply stare at her sides, your own breath caught in your lungs. But they do not move, and panic begins to find its way in to your heart. Your face shoots to Lena then, because she is the embodiment of the strength and goodness that you could never hope to replicate, the one that, out of all of you, has the best chance to save her, and even as she speaks of passing you shake your head, hooves clamoring on rock as you step backwards, eyes wide with shock. Maybe it is the belief that because she had been found, because you had put all your belief because you didn’t need just hope because you knew she would be fine, that somehow her aches and bruises and all the wrong would be soothed away, erased.

That she would live without a doubt. Your eyes sting, throat swelling with the bitterness of defeat, of loss, your body trembling though not just from the chill that still permeates the air, your heart numbing to the softness of Lena’s humming. There are no words, no tears that fall despite the weeping of your heart, the plummet of your stomach. The three of you had tried and you had failed, her life snuffed out before your very eyes despite every well-intentioned attempt to fix her.

Now that was such a pity. Feline eyes stare into the light from the darkness, piercing the scene. Had the words of the old tigress been nothing. Still, it shows just how little they knew. Why they should keep to their own kind. Mortals never understood. Yet there was a side of her too, that didn’t understand. Surely they could see the signs, yet they are shocked anyway. The whiskered head tilts. A metal rattles around her neck and she glances down. She’s still just a smidge too small. The clock barely clears the ground.

Her face grows warm though. Forgiving. She had broken all the rules. Shown herself. Asked a question of a mortal. Talked of her kind. And worse, shown the clock. But…maybe it had been for a reason. Any young soul would have found itself run clean through for such crimes, but she was going anyway. She did it for something most of their kind did after spending a lifetime here. She grew to love them. The old tigress had stood for ages upon the mountaintops looking upon them. Protecting them. Saving them. Bringing them hope and light even in the darkest moments. She watched them ever and always faithfully. And she had fallen in love with them. She loved them.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“Hmp” The fanged mouth sounds. It was strange for her to stumble on that truth so young. Most, when born to bear their share of this world’s horrors, only realized it at their death as this old giant did. Yet, still young, and new, she found it now. Her lips curl and tail swishes. For the first time in their memories, one learned from another. You see, it was nearly over. Their line had suffered so much at each life for their love with nothing in return. Nothing to heal the wounds of hatred, fear, and death. Yet at last, it was given when the feeling of giving had long been forgotten. It restored, and now she was here. And she carried with her the lesson. A rare thing indeed for their kind.

A wind whips through the Arch, stifling the fire. Through the storm’s door there steps in a new creature. It was shorter, thinner, and smoother. Its coat shined of black and white, and every feature looked light and young. And about its neck, a ticking clock. “To new beginnings.” It answers in a purr of a voice, smiling. It pauses a moment watching the small gathering, remembering. Never had one remembered before. Never had one cared before. She would remember. She would keep the vows of her kind, but she would not loose the lesson her predecessor gained. “May the light follow you.” The blessing rolls out and she steps away. Gone.

The fire returns to its full strength, rolling peacefully once more. Yet, the tigress’s body is gone when they turn back. It was all gone. Could it have been a dream? No…something remained to warm the soul.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

OOC :: A new time tiger rises, to continue the work of her kind. Thanks to your kindness and light, the bringer of hope continues to guard the mountains. Well done! (And sorry if it was confusing, using words is troublesome, sometimes. =] )"Speech"